


somniis vivis

by ezziesworld (orphan_account)



Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Breathplay, Choking, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate Sex, Internal Conflict, Knifeplay, Masochism, Sadism, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ezziesworld
Summary: You refuse to acknowledge his influence on you, where even in your dreams he is omnipotent - when reality returns, he's more than willing to walk you through it.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Reader, Joker (DCU)/You
Series: The Depraved Adventures of Joker and You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696144
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	somniis vivis

_I must get my soul back from you; I am killing my flesh without it._ \- Sylvia Plath

* * *

The world feels shifted, off kilter with minuscule details that scratch the back of your mind. Subconsciously, you know - the ground doesn't appear in your peripheral, it materializes when you glance down, an image of fluttering particles dispersing in reverse. When you close your eyes, you still see the dilapidated apartment around you, the citrine couch that is a shade too dark in it's place against the wall, where the paper peels in nicotine stained slivers on it's own volition, like invisible hands are tearing it away. The lights are off, but the enclosed living room breathes with a flickering yellow that follows you as you go, as though you are glowing with your own sustained luminescence, casting shadows of abyss in the doorways and crevices of your 'home'. 

Your skin feels alive; goosebumps prickle and sweat gathers at the back of your neck to cool and induce a shiver that shudders the light around you - _or inside you?_ There's a visceral sense of fear in you, like walking through the bowels of a haunted house after midnight, innately tense. Glancing around, it's almost like you're looking through a delayed lens, surroundings smeared across your vision like a palm across a fresh painting. 

That's when you see him; standing in the doorway leading into your bedroom. His face appears to hover in the darkness, the stark white of his greasepaint garish against the black that surrounds him. Your heart stutters when he leans his head against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest as he acknowledges you. His mouth, set in a firm line but still smiling with a crimson permanence, splits as he bares his yellowed teeth in a grin that makes your stomach churn. It's mirthful, counterbalancing the hard piercing of his blackened gaze, which, in this moment, appears inhuman. 

"Just gonna stand there? C'mon, show some _appreciation_ \- I've let you _hang around_ this long." He says.

You're immediately reminded of all the times he has wrapped his hands around your throat, driven you to the edge of perpetual darkness with a malice that radiated from him, sometimes you're able to decipher the detrimental anger that curls his upper lip before he's taken by pleasure, or on the rare occasion, another force entirely. That's the unknown variable in all this - what stops him from ending it all? 

"Why?" You ask, and your voice comes to you easier than it ever has, genuinely curious. You've come to the conclusion that he is undecipherable, a complexity that is far beyond your own ability of understanding resides inside his head, and somewhere in there is the answer to the questions that plague you on a daily basis. 

"Because," He pushes himself from the wall and approaches. The closer he comes, the harder it is for you to function, to breathe. It's like his presence is exuding a toxic fume that burns in your lungs, slithers across your skin with deft touch to elicit a fresh wave of goosebumps. The light around you simmers to a dull glow, his proximity capturing it as though holding a flashlight beneath his chin, highlighting the mangled flesh of his scars. 

"You're just too much _fun_." 

Your chest hurts, twisting with something alike to disappointment. 

"Is that all it is?" You push. 

His smile falters for a moment in a rare display of hesitance, before he reaches up and touches his fingers against your chin, coaxing you to tilt your head back. You do so, knowing, even now, that defiance is a personal attack in regards to him. He taps them against your chin, humming a tune that sounds distorted in the warbling air of toxicity he emanates. 

"What do you wanna hear, hm?" 

"Is there more to it? More to - to _this_ than just breaking me?" 

"Is _that_ what you want? Some, ah, _deeper meaning_ to balance out your _wicked_ _desires?"_

You exhale shakily, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment of recollection. He knows so much about you; how you always crave him, even in the after moments where you writhe in agony, bearing his marks of finely split lacerations and purple mottled skin, how you're lucid enough to know it's sick. That you want there to be warrant for the masochistic desires he's embedded into you. You have to be a special brand of fucked-up to keep coming back, but he's the only one who's ever made you feel this way.

_It can't just be that - there has to be more._

"Do you love?" You whisper. 

"Ah - _emotions_. That's what's got you all _twisted_ up?" He takes your chin in his grasp, the seams of his gloves are felt acutely. "Look at me." 

Suddenly, you are afraid to do so. Even in this warped reality he breathes fear into you, and you're beginning to regret asking in the first place. 

"Look. At. Me." He drops his voice, that underlining snarl reserved for when his patience wears thin. You swallow thickly and glance up at him through your lashes. His tongue drags along his split lower lip slowly, lids at half mast and there are no whites of his eyes, just dark pits in a ghoulish white and red personage. 

"Do you know the, ah - _definition_ , of love?" 

"No." 

He nods absently, glances skyward for a fleeting moment then brings his attention back to you, with it a surprisingly neutral cadence. "The definition of _love_ \- an intense feeling of deep _affection_. Now - affection. _Funny_ little word, could mean so many things, when you think about it; sentiment, endearment, _devotion_. I'd say I'm uh, pretty _devoted_ to you, wouldn't you say?" 

"Devoted to hurting me." You whisper, and he grins, bringing his hand from your chin to your cheek, cupping you with the warmth of his leather clad palm. 

" _Perhaps_ \- when you look at it in a more, ah, _subjective_ light, I _do_ love." 

"So that's it, then. You love hurting me, more than you love killing. That's the only reason I'm still ' _hanging around_ '." 

You've come to this conclusion before; this exact one. It wasn't enough for you then, it didn't slake your thirst for meaning. That internal scale of yours is teetering in favor of complete resentment - it's a marvel it hasn't toppled over completely yet. But there are moments, scarce and implemented just enough to keep you from crumbling completely, feeding into that desire for more from him, for those many definitions of affection; sentiment, endearment. You think he does it methodically, morsels of hope that keep you tethered to him despite the agony he regularly inflicts, like stabbing you in the chest and mending it before you bleed out completely. 

"Not just _hurting_ you - no, no. There's more _fun_ to it than that." He states, matter-a-fact. " _Morals_ , everyone's got'em. Most people are, ah, pretty _lenient_ with those, especially when life gets a little... _Tricky_. _But_ , there are some _good_ souls that stick to 'em, _virtuous_ to the last drop." 

He pats your face, leaning in close. 

"You're one of 'em. While I do _love_ hurting you - I love bringing you back to _reality_ , more. Everyone's got that _little bit of darkness_ in them, and it takes different, ah, _methods_ to bring it out. Turns out, your method is _me_." He brings his mouth to yours, close enough that you can feel his breath on your face. "I keep you around because you make it a _challenge_ , babygirl, always fighting back. But when you get that _look_ in your eyes - you know the one, when I'm fucking you _senseless_ , that _moral code_ of yours is thrown out the window in favor of _me_."

You're struck with the urge to hit him. 

" _That's_ what I love." 

He closes the distance, his mouth hot and wet as he shoves his tongue past your lips to lick behind your teeth. You close your eyes but still you see him, that light that radiates from you flickering to showcase an intermittent flash of his face, up close and all encompassing. He runs his hand through your hair, yanking your head back and giving a low groan you are forced to swallow. 

_So that's it then - he doesn't just want to hurt me, he wants to break me completely. Change my entire perspective to one that better pleases him._

You're back to that question - what's stopping him from ending it all? If you give into that desire for him, let yourself be what he wants, there is no more challenge to be had. The repercussions of it are deadly, without a doubt - not to mention, the cost of giving up your own ideology. Is he worth that? The way he wraps his arm around your waist to pull you close, feeling the heat of him, the solidness of his body tangible and so real, you think he might be. He is sweet poison, flooding your veins to ignite your blood into a fire of unhindered desire; with the way your body reacts to him, you imagine your blood is black with his toxicity. 

He could be worth it - you _want_ him to be worth it, but there's more you need from him. Another definition of affection; affinity, care. _You need him to care._

"Tell me you love me." You breathe, pulling back from his kiss. There is no humor in his gaze, dropped into a consequential glare that strikes fear once more.

Your hand curls around a knife that wasn't there before, the handle cool against your palm. 

"I'm a lot of things, _sweetheart_ \- " He begins, you exhale shakily and grip the knife tighter. "but a _liar_ isn't one of 'em." 

"Then it's not worth it." You feel hot wet on your cheeks, realize your crying, then lunge. 

He doesn't make a move to defend himself as you raise your arm and implore as much strength as you can into the down swipe. The strange sensation of breaking through flesh curls in your gut, the knife piercing into his chest. He staggers, you release the knife as though the handle is white hot, your hand quivering uncontrollably. Mortified, you stare at the way it protrudes from him, rivulets of blood so dark it appears black trickles down his vest, before bringing your frantic attention to his face. He shows no signs of pain, his mouth is curled into a blasé grin, completely unaffected. 

The light is back; blinding, accentuating the distorted colors around you, burning bright like the sun and warming you from the inside out. 

"Well well - look at you, _surprising_ me every step of the way, aren't ya?" He comments, reaching up without a beat of hesitance, he wraps his hand around the hilt of the blade and pulls it free. A gush of black blood follows soon after like an open spigot. You feel sudden remorse when he coughs, the sound of it strained and followed with more of that ebony liquid, pouring from the corner of his mouth. He licks it away. 

"I didn't want to do it." You argue, your voice trembling through your tears. He sucks his teeth, it sounds wet with the blood in his mouth. 

"That takes the _joy_ out of it, doll." 

His vest is soaked through, his breathing rapid and for the first time, you see mortality in him - it makes your heart ache. 

"There shouldn't be joy in it at all." 

"Ah, and here I thought we were making _progress_." 

He stumbles forward, knife in hand as though making a move to hurt you, before staggering back until he hits the wall, sliding down to the ground. Instinctively, you rush to him. Your vision is blurred, but you can see the alarming amount of blood that he's lost, the way it still flows from his mouth. Panic stricken, you press your palms against his chest, applying pressure to the wound. Black secretion oozes between your fingers, making your stomach churn. 

_Don't die. Don't die. Don't die._

_Why can't I just let him die?_

"This where you, uh, _confess_ your _undying_ _love?"_ He goads, coughs, and it specks your cheeks. You don't even flinch. 

"Would that be such a _terrible_ thing?" You manage, your voice warbling with emotion. 

"You know what would _really_ prove it?" Reaching out, he grabs your wrist and yanks your hand from his chest. 

"Wait-"

"If you _finish_ the job." 

You seize, tearing your attention from his gushing wound to his face. His expression is unreadable, stoic as he settles the knife in your stained hands. You're trembling, shaking your head no and he curls his fingers around yours, enforcing your grip before bringing the blade to his throat. 

"J-"

"Show me some _affection_ , doll." 

You're still shaking your head, he's pressing the knife in harder, splitting the tension to pearl more of that inhuman blood to the surface. 

"C'mon - _do it._ I want you to do it. _Hurt_ me, like I hurt you." 

_Is this really all he knows of love?_

You shouldn't be surprised; this was written between the lines of every moment you've shared with him. It makes sense, that _this_ is what would satisfy him in the end, _If he doesn't kill you first._ Have you fallen so low you'd slit his throat, cast aside all your morals while at the same time giving him his own variety of affection? It's what he wants; complete moral disestablishment, and you're inclined to give it to him, to speak his language if it means inflicting even a _particle_ of the pain he's put you through. 

Love and hate are two sides of the same blade for him - the highest form of endearment lays at your fingertips. It leaves a taste of disdain on your tongue, that even in the face of death, he wins. You itch to cut him open, you can hear his goading laugh now, posthumous victory. 

"I hate you."

"You too, _babygirl_." 

He grins, and you jerk the knife against him; staggering light envelopes you, suffusing the sight of his open throat and the black blood that gushes from him.

* * *

Air rushes into your lungs so quick it burns, gasping and breathless as you open your eyes to darkness. You're slick with sweat, it cools in the air. 

_A dream._

It was a dream, but you still feel the tacky sensation of his blood drying on your hands, the vivid imagery of his bleeding torso and slit throat fresh in your mind. 

"Must've been a _doozy_." 

You startle, his voice crystal clear and unhindered sounds from across the room. A flash of déjà vu overwhelms you; he's standing the same way he did in your dream, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. He's not wearing his jacket or blazer, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and fingers bare of gloves. There's a distinct difference in his gaze, however - knowing. 

"It was." You say, plainly as you can. There's something jarring about seeing him walk around after what happened, be it dream or not. He hums, pushes himself from the frame and ambles into the dark bedroom, running his hand over the bed as he approaches. 

"You know you _talk_ in your sleep?" He queries. You stiffen, curl your fingers into the thin sheet over your lap and glance at him warily. 

"Sayin' all kinds of stuff. I'm no, ah, _therapist_ or anything, but they say dreams usually have _meaning_. If you believe in all that." 

He sits on the edge of the bed, dipping it with his weight, imploring a strange comforting presentation of his body; open and expectant. He tilts his head to the side, licking his lower lip. You can clearly see what he's trying to do, but there's something _off_ about it. It could be that he's never actually gone out of his way to console you (and why start now?), or it could be the underlining tension his presence perpetually radiates. Either way, you find yourself shying away from his gaze, the texture of the sheet between your fingers suddenly enrapturing. 

You can't help but feel as though you're being scrutinized, the silence stretching on uncomfortably. You're sure he wants you to say something, to initiate whatever the hell _this_ is, but you're caught up in the unrealistic fear that he knows what you dreamed of, that he's posed to read between every little thing you say, making any words that threaten to fall from your lips the equivalence of showing your hand, _proverbial cards stained with his blood._

"What's goin' on in that _pretty_ little head of yours, hmm?" He reaches out, two fingers tapping beneath your chin to coax your head up. Like in your dream, you follow.

You know you need to answer, say _something_ to satisfy him. You're torn between the truth - _I stabbed you in my dream_ \- or a wistful lie. You shove down the urge to look away from him, instead squaring your gaze with his; the darkness of his eyes always seem to pierce through whatever facade you have, the all-knowing idiosyncrasy of his glare more potent than any vocal demand he tosses your way.

Logically, you're aware he can't read minds, doesn't know the extent of your evocative dreams. Irrationally, you find fear at the mere _concept_ of lying to him. Even in your own mind, his influence is omnipotent. 

"I dreamed of you." You confess. 

"Did you?" He slides his hand downwards, fingertips trailing the middle of your neck, overgrown nails scratching not unpleasantly. You raise your chin on instinct, a small exhale shuddering from your lips. The fading, dream given sensation of tangible toxicity tickles your skin when he leans in close, bypassing your mouth in favor of pressing his painted lips against your neck. 

"Sounded more like a, ah... _nightmare_." 

You swallow thickly, aware that he felt it as he grins against your neck. 

"Something like that." 

"Fitting." He remarks, borderline joking. It doesn't quell that underlining anxiety in you, but it cues you in on his mood; he's riding on that line between malevolent and playful - impish, almost. Brushing his mouth up to your ear, he wraps his fingers around your throat. 

"Was I the _monster_ under your bed?" He breathes heavily, nipping your earlobe. It makes you shudder, your hands raising and finding the broadness of his shoulders. The feel of him is surreal after what's happened, pushing something akin to relief through your muddled mind. 

_Do I regret it?_

Having him here, now; the scent of him strong and familiar, the heat of his body, the unique intonation of his voice - all of it is soothing in a way that troubles you. His mouth is smoothing down your throat, pressing chaste kisses to the sweat dampened skin before breaking the tender embrace with a fierce bite to the divot where collarbone meets neck. A soft moan falls from your lips, your fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. 

If given the opportunity in real life, you're not sure you'd be able to do it - the revelation is harrowing. 

Being stuck in this never-ending loop with him sounds like some personalized iteration of Hell; constantly walking on thin ice, living in a timid mindset for as long as he's around, you'll always second guess yourself, always taste the sickening concoction of desire and disgust being with him entails. His hand slides beneath your shirt, pressing against the soft flesh of your stomach and moving higher to dwarf your breast in his palm. 

"Tell me about it." He says, applying a firm push against your chest. You follow, letting your back hit the bed as he finds the space between your thighs. 

You close your eyes, turn your head in a silent request for more as he grinds his hips against yours, and suddenly you're reminded of what he said - what you _imagined_ he said; _that_ moral code _of yours is thrown out the window in favor of_ me. It's happening, right now, with his body atop yours, solid and hot, grinding wantonly against you to blur the line between fear and pleasure, resentment and endearment. It makes your skin feel like it's on fire, the acknowledgement that it's _true._

_"I killed you."_

He stops moving, his mouth still on your neck and the only indicator that time hasn't frozen completely is the rapid thrum of your heart. 

"Is that all?" He asks with such an indifference it makes you wonder if you're still dreaming. Shifting above you, he sits on his haunches and begins unbuttoning his shirt, his head tilted to the side with a barely there curve of his lips. Feeling incredibly small beneath him, you curl your fingers into the sheets and steel yourself. 

"I stabbed you in the chest." You breathe out, hyper aware of the way his breath shudders as you say it. He's working his dress shirt off, no undershirt to hinder the view of his marred torso or the roll of muscle in his shoulders when he brings his hands to you, tugging on the hem of your shorts. You hesitate a brief moment, your heart thundering in your ears.

_Shouldn't he be anything other than...this?_

"What else?" He demands, ripping your shorts further down your legs. You aid him absently, torn between bewildered and aroused as you watch the way his eyes, _so incredibly dark_ , wander from your exposed cunt upwards to meet yours. 

"I...cut your throat." You whisper, just loud enough to catch in the air.

The sound that vibrates in his throat is inhuman; a mixed tone of a growl and a sigh, and then he's over you again, smashing his mouth against yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs, his tongue forcing past your teeth to dominate with fervor. It's a challenge to keep up with him, body compelled to react with your mind detached in thought. 

Your dreams seem to have found meaning here; love and hate have blurred together within him, no distinguishable line drawn between them. If that's proven to be true, what else is? The thought is dismal, but you find it hard to focus on your crisis of morality with his hand between your bodies, rubbing sharp circles against your clit. You buck your hips against him and, with a willed upon force of resentment, bite his lip hard enough that it splits between your teeth. The blood that floods your mouth is sharp, making your stomach churn because all you can imagine is that black secretion that oozed from his body when you stabbed him. 

He groans against your face before you release him. 

"Dream of it _often?"_ He breathes, "Gotta admit, _doll_ \- it's a real _turn on."_

"You wanted it." You argue, breathlessly.

Realizing that you're trying to rationalize something as deep rooted and complex as your dream, you opt for definiteness, something which your own mind can't conjure on it's own. He draws his fingers from your clit, working haste on the fastens of his slacks. If there's ever a time to ask such monumental questions without his laden misdirection, it's now; when the complex layers of his cognizance is fogged with desire. 

"Why don't you just kill me, and get it over with?" You pant. He chuckles, the sound is dry and impassive. 

"I think you already _know_ the answer to _that_ , sweetheart." 

Your heart stutters, and you're immediately questioning how much he knows. 

"The _real_ question is -" He begins, shoving his slacks down his thighs just enough for his cock to spring free. "why don't _you_ , ah, _kill me?"_

You're at a loss for words, the answer so twisted and warped even _you're_ not entirely sure. With no hesitation, he grabs your hips and yanks you across the bed, closer to him. You gasp, hands flying out to find purchase on his shoulders. 

"Don't you _hate_ me? That's what you _said_." 

You're overwhelmed, the threat of unwanted tears stinging the corners of your eyes as you glare at him. 

Yes, you _hate_ him. You hate him with every fiber in your being; everything he's ever done to you, how you're willing to cast aside everything you've ever known for _him_. You hate that you thrive on his malicious affection, that he's ingrained that ideology into you so deeply you _dream_ of it. You hate that he's twisted you into some debauched, immoral, _devoted_ _to_ _him_ version of yourself. 

The ache of him pushing inside you disrupts your sob with a sharp moan. He brings his mouth to your face, kissing your temple with a small flick of his tongue with the drawback, gathering the salt of your tears. Your fingers curl into his shoulders, digging hard into him with a distressing brew of resent and desire. 

He moves slow, thrusting between your trembling thighs languidly, like he's trying to mitigate the fire that rages in your being. It makes you _mad;_ that he would draw these things out of you, make you feel this way and then have the gall of diffusing it with tenderness _now_. You don't want tenderness, you want weight on the teetering scale inside you, something to crumble it to pieces.

Abandoning your grip of his shoulders, you catch his hair in your fists and tug his mouth to yours, take his lip between your teeth again with the sole intent of hurting him. It doesn't falter his movements, he keeps a steadfast tempo that surges pleasure through you, giving deep in his chest groans that breathe hot against your face. He braces a forearm above your head, keeps himself close while wrapping his fingers around your throat, his thumb pressing harshly into your trachea. 

A jarring buck of his hips coaxes a sharp gasp from you, tearing from him to throw your head back against the bed, losing yourself to the feel of him. 

"Tell me - how'd it _feel?"_ He growls, thrusting harder now. You whine in response, taken by the salacious stretch of his cock, gripping his hair tight - grasping for straws of that resent he's so good at brewing. Shifting, he's quick to grab a handful of your hair, his off hand slipping deftly from your neck to shove beneath you, wrapping around your waist and lifting you just enough to change the angle. You see stars - that fleeting tenderness is cast aside in favor of relentless _fucking,_ driving hard against that delicate bundle of nerves to induce a staggering wave of pleasure. 

It feels as though all rationality leaves you - you wrap your legs around his waist, dig your heels into the small of his back and cling to him, feeling the rising tide inside you, threatening to drown you. 

"Oh _fuck_ \- h-harder, _please_ -" 

He snickers, " _Look_ at _you -"_ giving a fierce tug of your hair and jerking your head back into the mattress. "Can't even _answer_ me - too fucking _desperate_ to think straight." 

The moan that leaves you hangs in the air, wanton and pitched high as you roll your hips against him, riding the cusp of your orgasm so closely you can feel the scintilla's of pleasure flutter in your stomach. You don't want to imagine the way you look beneath him; breathless and begging, the picture of lewd. It's giving more meaning to that _damn_ dream of yours, _proving him right._

"C'mon _babygirl_. Talk _dirty_ to me - did you _like_ it?" He's panting now, his own pinnacle creeping up on him if the erratic change of his tempo is anything to go by. You feel your stomach twist, your cunt flexing around him at the way he says it, and you don't have time to be mortified by that, you're so close your voice streamlines into a staccato of pleading whines and moans. Your skin suddenly feels too tight, your bones too rigid, everything feels compacted and ready to burst, and then he stops. 

You howl with some agonizing inflection of fury and desperation, your eyes snapping open, no doubt burning with ire at the self-satisfied smirk that curls his mangled mouth. He looks no more composed than you - his hair is sticking to his sweat dampened forehead, his lower lip bloodied from your bite, his pupils blown wide with a tenebrous malevolence that would, under any other circumstance, strike fear into the very core of you - right now, you don't have the capacity for fear. 

"Tell me you _hate_ me." 

_Gladly_.

"I _hate_ you." You pant, yank your fingers from his hair and roughly grab either side of his face. His smirk evolves into a leering grin, "I hate you so _fucking_ much." you kiss him, curling your fingers so that your nails dig into the hard bone of his jaw. For a moment, everything slows - the kiss is deep, the taste of him heavy on your tongue, the weight of his body atop yours anchoring you to the moment. 

He pulls away, draws his hand from your hair to dig around in the pocket of his slacks, bunched at his thighs. He procures a switchblade, his next demand punctuated with the sharp click as it opens. You can feel your heart seize in your chest. 

_"Prove it."_

You attention flicks between the blade and his face, his expression downcast with arousal, hooded eyes glimmering with excitement. You hesitate a moment too long, he gives an impatient sigh before tearing your hand from him and shoving the smooth handle in your palm, wrapping your fingers around it and keeping his grasp over yours. You're stunned with the parallels, reluctantly enthralled by the way he angles his chin up, exposing his neck with a flutter of his eyes as he starts rocking against you. 

"This _doin'_ anything for you?" He asks, his mouth curled into a smirk, tongue darting out to lick his lip. It's goading, maybe even rhetorical, but there's no denying the way your stomach clenches or the involuntary flex of your cunt around him - giving him all the answer he needs. He's fallen back into the same inexorable push and pull as before, thrusting erratically while panting with exertion, groaning deep in his chest as he applies pressure to the knife. 

Your trembling beneath him, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, struggling to keep your head above the waves that threaten to drown you. His visage in this moment is something like a fever-dream; he's undeniably alluring in the way his face twists with pleasure, the thick tendons in his neck prominent with the tense in his muscles, the knife cutting a fine line into his skin to pearl blood to the surface - red, not that inhuman black you envisioned. A stuttering moan escapes him, his fingers around yours tighten to the point it hurts. 

He's close, the pain and thrill of it no doubt adding to his pleasure. You want to find it abhorrent, but what would that make you? This shouldn't make you feel this way; it's sick, _toxic_ \- you press the knife harder, sweat beading at your furrowed brows, body throbbing with exhilaration, a deep-rooted hunger to see him bleed drives your movements, fills you with a revolting concupiscence you don't want to ponder. 

"Fuck - _yes._ " He grits out, his hand quickly finding it's place around your throat in a grip that's borderline deadly, pushing you down into the mattress as he fucks you with a newly invigorated energy. He's mumbling something under his heavy breath, you can't quite make it out, your head swimming in a fog of depleted oxygen, lighting your blood on fire and suddenly you're hit with a wall of pleasure; curling in on yourself against his hold, quivering with a strangled cry that scarcely finds passage through your constricted throat, you come around him. 

Through your muddled vision you watch as his eyes roll, lashes fluttering with an open mouthed groan; it looks like he's just taken a hit of something akin to heroin, the euphoric expression of someone high and lost in their own mind, and then he pushes deep with a sense of finality, and you're warmed with the sensation of him filling you. It draws a shiver down your spine, a weak moan scratching past your lips.

The after moment feels abnormal; he loosens his hold on your hand, you draw the blade back with a notable quiver in your arm. His eyes open slowly with a shuddering breath, catching yours with a curl of his lips. He looks... _Satisfied._ More sated than an after sex contentment, there's something else there you can't pinpoint. His grip around your neck is loose now, his thumb absently swiping along the damp skin with a small hum, and then he leans down and kisses you. 

It's a sharp contrast to moments prior; slow and languid, calming your adrenaline to the point you're coherent again. With that clarity comes the mortification, the realization, and it's too much; you got off on it, just like he did. You wanted to hurt him, just like he wants. He's right about _everything - even in your dreams, he's right._ Your stunned with a myriad of thoughts, damning revelation that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. 

He shifts above you, kicking off his slacks the rest of the way before pulling from the kiss and tossing himself beside you, jostling you. Either he doesn't notice the absolute conflict that shows on your face, or he doesn't care to comment on it. 

_"Scooch."_ He says. You do, absently shuffling towards the wall, offering enough space for his broad frame to nestle in beside you. He wraps his arms around your waist, tugging you closer until your head is tucked beneath his chin, staring at the surface level slit in his throat. It's still bleeding, little rivulets trickling along his skin and it makes your stomach twist. 

The overwhelming scent of gasoline, sweat, and the metallic bite of blood invades your senses. You feel like you're falling apart from the inside out, and the only thing keeping you remotely stable is the familiarity of _him_ wrapped around you - it makes you want to cry. 

He gives a deep sigh and an exaggerated wiggle as he settles in for the remainder of the night. 

_"Sweet dreams, babygirl."_

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to a friend over in the Tumbler-verse for sparking this idea, as well as the lovely friends over on Discord for their continuous support, ya'll are amazing. Thank you for checking out my fic, please stay tuned for part two sometime in the future. Feedback and concrit is completely welcome, and so greatly appreciated!


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